Huge strands of incongruous demonstrators twisted their way down the West Side Highway, lapping happily along the streets edges, spilling over sloppily onto the sidewalks where their loud, logo-heavy t-shirts and poster board signs, their strangely recreational dress and their preachy, throaty voices gave serious pause to the average New Yorkers; the pleasantly self-absorbed New Yorkers who were forced to dodge and swerve around the sluggish masses; the New Yorkers who looked on, blinking like distracted birds, and tried, despite themselves, not to feel resentful about how much extra sidewalk the protesters were taking up; the New Yorkers who struggled not to note aloud how most of the protestors in line for the bathroom at Starbucks hadn’t even purchased any coffee; the New Yorkers who feel they’ve done their global duty, and then some, simply by taking the subway rather then driving.

It seems there are two types of people these days: No, not conservatives and liberals; not Democrats and Republicans. It’s even more rudimentary than that. I’m talking about political and non-political. Non-political people are those who see the world barreling ever faster off the rails of plausibility and deep into the wild, gurgling bowels of turmoil and cyclical disaster and respond with only irritable resignation. They scoff over the shoulders of eager news-readers wrestling with their Sunday Times on the subway; they sneer at the Robo-cops on the platforms, overtly not caring about the automatic rifles they wield; they feign ignorance of the situation (‘Seriously, who in the hell is Ayad Alawi?’); they watch Friends reruns and order take-out; they fall asleep in the middle of ‘Fahrenheit 911.’

But then there are the others, the Political, who see the world barreling ever faster off the rails of plausibility and deep into the wild, gurgling bowels of turmoil and cyclical disaster and respond with intense devotion. They struggle to assert their connection to American democracy and determine where it all went wrong, somewhere in the column inches of USA Today and Harper’s, somewhere between BBC and ABC; they wrestle defiantly with the Sunday Times on the subway and cast the ten pounds of glossy ads in the garbage as if it were the very embodiment of global Jihad (or is it the Bush administration?); they spend innumerable handfuls of pocket change on aluminum buttons to tell everybody who gets stuck behind them on the subway stairs that ‘war is not the answer,’ that ‘peace is patriotic,’ and that, despite any illusions we might have, ‘war kills;’ they resolve to vote (‘when is the next, like, big election?’) They attempt to shock themselves out of the stupor they now realize has mired their lives in a perennial haze of petty consumerism and self-absorption, and in doing this, they figure they might as well try to shock you out of yours too.

So they protest and chant and march, and protest and chant and march, and protest and chant and march, some more.

Our paths seem sometimes to diverge so violently that we think perhaps the space between us has grown too far to span, but take heed fellow humans! For as sure as President Bush smiles every time he says ‘merderous regime;’ as sure as Osama bin Laden is playing Texas Hold ‘em with Dick Cheney in an underground bunker somewhere; as sure as Matt Drudge IS A MIAMI BEACH LEATHER DADDY WHO LOVES EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!, we will come together next month for the Republican National Convention, if only to piss in the same porta-potties, get frisked for weapons by the same cops and crowd onto the same subway cars, warily eyeing and sniffing one another for strange bomb-like bulges, loose wires, gunpowder, detached gazes and incessant chanting.

But sometimes, even in our ultra-polarized times, the line between political and non-political becomes blurred.

We go live now into the not-too-distant future: It’s Monday, August 30, on the Great Lawn in Central Park, to give voice to the silent, forgotten New Yorkers on this day of protest against what they consider an unelected president who has plunged the United States into an indefensible war in Iraq.

“Wow, Jenna Bush is so hot dude,” said Larry, shoving Vogue magazine in Lance’s face. Lance surveyed the photo coldly.
“I dunno,” he said furrowing his brow. “Jenna’s face is like so, round. I dunno, every time I see a new picture of her it looks like her head is swelling. It’s kind of weird.”
“Oh, whatever. You just don’t want to admit it because she’s Bush’s daughter. But just try to tell me that you wouldn’t drill that wetland,” said Larry, poring over the photo spread. “My God! Just look at her in this picture! It’s like she’s saying: ‘Come and get me, come and fuck me like a dog you filthy bastard!’”

"That's an Onion headline," said Lance.
"What?"
"'Drill her wetland.'"
"No, I don't think so," said Larry.
"Yes it is. You just completely ripped off an Onion headline."
"Why are you so critical?"
"But it is."
"Maybe it is. So what?" said Larry.
"Not maybe. It is."
"Fine!"

They stood side by side, Lance leaning on a crudely-fashioned protest sign scrawled with the words “BUSH SUCKS ASS,” staring silently at the photo for a few long moments, attempting to glean any further insight into the Bush twins’ fuckability.

“Nahh. It’s not a partisan thing,” Lance said. “For instance, I’d never bone Chelsea Clinton, even though I admire her father immensely.”
“True,” said Larry pensively.
“When it comes to fuckin’ –  I’m totally bipartisan. I’ll cross the aisle for the right girl,” Lance continued, poking his finger at the photo of Barbara Bush, posed next to Jenna in a pearly gown. “I mean, give me Barbara any day. She’s the sophisticated one. Plus, she’s skinnier.”

They started walking slowly across the grass again, when Lance broke in:
“Hey, you think she likes to be called Barb?”
“How the hell should I know? I doubt it,” said Larry, still gazing at the photo. “I think you’re just scared of Jenna because you know she’s the friskier one. Shit, I bet you’re afraid you couldn’t get it up for presidential pussy. I bet you’d wilt like a goddamn flower under that kind of pressure.”
“Are you questioning my virility Larry?” asked Lance, planting himself on the lawn, oblivious to the distant crack of a baseball bat, and the clumps of scattered picnics and occasional Frisbees lofting through the air.
“Yes,” said Larry, twisting his face into a grimace. “For fuck’s sake! Just listen to what you’re saying!” He used the rolled-up magazine like a pointer. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t fuck Jenna Bush – daughter of perhaps the most divisive and contentious president in modern times – just because her face is too round for you? What other conclusion can I draw? That reeks of sexual inadequacy and you know it!”

“Whoa. Hang on just a second,” Lance hoisted his protest sign to point at Larry. “I thought we were talking pure aesthetics here. If you want to drag political capital into it, fine, but you can’t go shifting the parameters on me mid-discussion. That’s just unfair.”

“Mid-discussion my ass!” Larry said. “Didn’t you just tell me you’re bi-partisan when it comes to fucking? Correct me if I’m wrong here, but I think that statement alone implies partisanship.”
“It does not!” said Lance.
“Yes it does.”
“No it doesn’t dude! What the fuck do you think bi-partisan means? It means non-partisan.”
“Bullshit dude,” said Larry. “It means both partisan. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just drop it. You’re a sexual gimp – let’s leave it at that.”
“Fuck you,” said Lance.

They started walking again. Lance swiped the magazine out of Larry hands and gazed at the picture as they slouched across the Great Lawn.

“Okay,” Lance said finally, and with an air of defeat. “I’d fuck her.”
 “Who? Jenna?”
“Yes. I’d fuck her on star power alone.”
“Well,” said Larry contentedly “I’m glad you finally saw the light.”
“But, again,” Lance continued, handing the magazine back to Larry. “If we’re talking about pure aesthetics, she’s isn’t all that. Her head is far too swollen”
“Damn,” said Larry. “You’ve got more flip-flops than John Kerry.”
“Flip-flop? What flip-flop? I said I wouldn’t fuck Jenna Bush based on the parameters of our discussion – i.e. looks alone. But if you factor in political power – then yes, I would fuck her. It’s as simple as that. It’s two separate answers for two separate questions.”
“Flip-flopper,” said Larry.
“Shut up.”

They approached a hot dog stand, sweating and wheezing.

“Man, will you hold this sign for a minute?” Lance handed Larry the protest sign. “Goddamn, I knew I should have sanded this fuckin’ stick before we used it for a sign. I think I have a splinter.”
Lance squeezed his the end of his index finger until a drop of blood rose on the surface. Under it, the end of a dark splinter was visible.

Larry tipped the sign over his shoulder and stared around the Great Lawn, baffled.

“Hey Lance, isn’t the protest supposed to be here?”
“Yeah,” said Lance, peering across the lawn, using his hand to shield the blinding sun. “I don’t know. I guess we’re just early.”
“We’re such good citizens dude,” said Larry.
“Totally,” said Lance.
“Hey, the convention is today, isn’t it?” asked Larry.
“Yeah, I’m almost certain.”
“That’s bizarre,” said Larry. “You’d think the protestors would be out in full force by now.”
“Well, it is Monday,” said Lance. “Maybe they all had to work.”
“Yeah maybe. Hey, you bring that joint with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, fuck dude. Let’s find a nice spot to chill and get stoned until the protest gets going.”
“Sounds good.”

So Lance and Larry walked off the Great Lawn toward a thicket of trees and shade, forgetting all about the protest.

“How about Condoleeza Rice?” asked Larry. “Would you fuck her?”
“Funny you should ask. Just this morning I was watching a clip of her on TV and I was thinking: ‘Condi, baby, you got it goin’ on!’”
“Seriously,” said Larry. “I don’t know what it is about her, but Condi is one foxy mama.”
“It’s those cute freckles of hers,” said Lance.
“Yeah, and the gap in her teeth – like Madonna.”
“And of course, there’s the power factor,” said Larry.
 “Indeed.”
“Well,” said Lance. “At least we agree on something.”